


The Answer, My Friend

by orphan_account



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: 1969, Alternate Universe, Angst, Closeted Character, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Greaser AU, Hurt/Comfort, Jewish Characters, Jewish Culture, M/M, Period Typical Homophobia, Slow Burn, Vietnam War, War Injuries, draft dodging
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-07
Updated: 2017-12-16
Packaged: 2019-02-11 21:32:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12944370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: The first thing he became aware of was the faded envelope in his mother’s hand.  And the big bold print at the top.Order To Report For Armed Forces Physical Examination.  And there was his name, printed by hand, and a stamp just below that to show it was legal, and valid.Eric was being drafted.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I got hit with this idea a while ago, and I've been working on it steadily between study sessions, and now that I have time, I'm going to write it. I'm guessing probably around 10 or so chapters, because it's a slow burn. We won't meet Jack until Bitty gets to Montreal at the end of chapter 2, so be patient with me.
> 
> Be warned that because this fic is set in the late 60s/early 70s, there's some stuff happening with internalised homophobia and being closeted for both Jack and Bitty, but it's not the main focus of the fic, so I won't be harping on it a lot.
> 
> I've done a decent amount of research regarding the draft and everything, but also that's not going to be the main focus once Bitty gets to the Zimmermann's so I wont be putting a huge amount of detail into that, either.
> 
> This is definitely a Greaser AU, with an angsty, leather-jacket wearing, motorbike riding Jack Zimmermann with a huge chip on his shoulder, and sweet southern Bitty who just wants to survive without being sent into a warzone. Definitely a fun trope to play round with. Without further ado, here's chapter one.

Yes, ’n’ how many deaths will it take till he knows  
That too many people have died?  
The answer, my friend, is blowin’ in the wind  
The answer is blowin’ in the wind  
-Bob Dylan

*** 

“Dicky, honey, can you take this out to table three. Mr Hershey’s got a big meeting in ten minutes and he needs this quick as you can.”

Swiping his hands on the bottom of his apron, Eric pushed up on his toes and snagged the plate full of eggs, toast, and homefries. He balanced it on his arm, snagging a coffee pot on his way round the corner, and slipped past Jenny who was greeting the newest table to sit down.

Mr Hershey, one of their long-time regulars, a former English teacher at Eric’s old High School who had just been elected to City Council, gave Eric a careful grin. It was no secret how most of their little town felt about Eric—wary about a boy who wasn’t ever into sports, had no plans to follow in his daddy’s footsteps, join the military, or go into something meant for him—like medicine or banking. No, Eric was content to stay right where he was raised, at his momma’s skirts at their little diner.

Dicky’s was, of course, one of the most popular little diners in Madison County. It was a staple for the lifers, and a first stop for those who had gone away for college or jobs and were home on holiday or for family visits. Eric had been working the place since he was knee-high, and as much as college sounded like something he _should_ do, he just couldn’t bring himself to want to leave.

The problem was, the townsfolk weren’t exactly wrong about their assessment of Eric, as much as he kept it to himself. But he’d known he’d been blushin’ over big, strong arms instead of pretty skirts for years now, and when he’d been beat up real bad and stuffed into the equipment closet, he hadn’t been surprised. And he couldn’t bring himself to defend his innocence against those boys because when they were shouting those ugly slurs, there had been truth to them.

Eric knew he was wrong. He’d been born wrong, and he’d die that way. All he could do was keep it deep inside him, and maybe find some way to compromise who he was to make his momma and daddy happy. But not at college. He’d heard too much about those liberal schools up north with their anti-war protests and runnin’ their mouths against the President. He didn’t trust himself enough not to lose who he was. It was difficult enough bein’ here. He didn’t want to take the risk.

“Busy morning, eh son?” Mr Hershey said as Eric put the plate down in front of the man, and slid a glass bottle of ketchup out of his apron pocket.

“Yessir,” Eric said, nodding as he leant over to refill the man’s coffee. “Seems everyone got places to be today, but needin’ some fuel.”

“Well you just keep this coffee flowing, boy,” Mr Hershey said, then took a big gulp before waggling the cup for yet another fill. “You get your letter yet?”

Eric blinked, then flushed hard when he realised what Mr Hershey was talking about. The draft, as it had just been announced. The lottery had just taken effect the month before, and it seemed all the young men round Madison were on edge waiting to see if they were getting called up.

Eric supposed if he had a greatest fear before that well, the draft had long-since replaced it. He couldn’t imagine what he’d do if he was forced to don the uniform and take up arms for his country. And it wasn’t that he didn’t want to fight alongside good men, but he wasn’t even sure entirely what the war was about, let alone where Vietnam was. Eric was just this side of nineteen and trying to think about learning the books for the restaurant, not fighting people he wasn’t even sure deserved to be fought.

“No sir,” he said softly.

“Well it’ll be an honour, you know, when it does come.”

Eric nodded, swallowed thickly, then turned back to the counter to busy himself. Suzanne saw him a minute later as he was calling in an order for two Adam and Eve on a log, and she frowned. “You’re all pink in your cheeks, dumplin’. You feelin’ alright?”

“Yes, momma,” Eric lied, shaking his head and putting on his best smile. “I’m alright. Just got a bit overheated.”

“Well get you some water,” Suzanne ordered, “then get over to five and six. We got lines out the door til ten, you know this.”

“Yes, momma,” Eric said dutifully, and filled a cup at the tap, gulping it down then rushing out to the floor to clear away the mess. As he walked by Mr Hershey’s table, he was relieved to see all that was left was his abandoned paper, a half cup of coffee, and the remnants of congealed scrambled eggs.

*** 

Letting out a breath, Eric felt the first, perfect slide of ice beneath his feet as his blades sounded with the soothing _shhhhffft_ sound. There was no better place than this, no greater heaven than being on the ice with the entire rink ahead of him, and abandoned stands surrounding him. The rink hadn’t been used in months, and likely wouldn’t be for even longer—not until boys were comin’ back from the war and teams began to start again.

Madison didn’t have a proper hockey team, and there had been a few ladies teaching figure skating to little girls who wanted to learn, but since the fighting had gotten worse, things were starting to shut down. It was only having known Mr and Mrs Cohen for as long as they had that Eric still had a key, and permission to go as long as he wanted provided he cleaned up the ice when he was finished. Eric had learnt to skate from a young age, after watching his momma glide along in her free time when he was just a toddler. He’d been desperate to learn, and had a talent for it that overshadowed a lot of the kids trying to learn.

His daddy was fine with it, too. Until Eric reached an age people started to noticed, until people wanted him to compete and make a name for himself. Eric’s dad was a football coach, and a man’s man, and no son of his would be strapping into some skin-tight suit with glitter on it to make a fool of himself. So he stopped. At least, he stopped in the eyes of his father.

It was easier this way, and he hadn’t lost the ability to do this when he wanted. Just the ability to do it where people could see.

It was fine, he told himself. It was all fine. This was just the way life was.

Eric closed his eyes as he spun in circles, and although he didn’t have access to the music, he could hear it plain in his head as he went through his moves. He was small, so his jumps had been more fluid than most men who figure skated, though it had been a long time since he’d had any real training. But it felt nice, it felt perfect.

He was so lost in it, he didn’t hear the doors open until a voice cleared their throat. Eric gasped, spinning and nearly falling when his eyes set on Mrs Cohen. His heartrate calmed as he skated to the wall, and he offered her a smile. “Afternoon, Mrs Cohen. Momma sent a pie over. It’s in the locker, and I’ll get it before I…”

“Eric,” she said, and there was a tension in her voice that made Eric’s blood turn to ice. “Your momma called. She needs you home right now.”

Eric felt a wave of panic, even as he started for the exit. “Is everything alright? Did something happen? Is daddy…”

“Your dad’s fine, sweetpea,” she said. He stumbled off the ice, and when her hand, dry and paper-thin, cupped his cheek, he felt even more terrified. “You just need to get home. I’ll go fetch that pie myself, alright?”

Eric nodded, his throat thick. “Yeah, you bet. Alright. I’ll just…see you next week?”

She said nothing, her jaw tense, and at that point it was glaringly obvious, big as a neon sign, though he was too afraid to jinx himself by saying it aloud. So he just pulled his skates off, tucked into his shoes, and rushed out to his beat-up old truck.

“It’s gonna be fine,” he whispered to himself as he pulled out onto the main road. “It’s gonna be fine.”

*** 

The first thing he became aware of was the faded envelope in his mother’s hand. And the big bold print at the top. **Order To Report For Armed Forces Physical Examination**. And there was his name, printed by hand, and a stamp just below that to show it was legal, and valid.

Eric was being drafted.

His ears buzzed with panic, and the sheer terror on his mother’s face didn’t help matters. He was allowed to be excused, to trudge up the stairs and into the washroom to run a bath because it was the only thing he could do to keep himself from falling apart.

His hands shook, and the water was too hot, but it was something to do. A routine, to keep him focussed.

He could hear downstairs as his father got home, his mother’s panicked voice rising, his father’s deep-rumbling murmur trying to placate her.

“…Suzie, this isn’t necessarily a bad thing…”

“How is this not a bad thing, Eric? When our boy is being sent off to his death…”

“It’s less likely than the news is making it sound. We’re the United States, Suzie. We’ve got the strongest military…”

“So you’re tellin’ me these boys comin’ back maimed or dead is just propaganda? That I shouldn’t worry our boy is being sent off and probably won’t make it? He’s…he’s not like them other boys, Eric. He’s not…”

“I know.” Coach paused, then sighed loud enough for Eric to hear it. “I know he ain’t. But maybe this is a good thing. Maybe this’ll toughen him up, give him something to fight for, be a man for…”

“You think it’s worth the risk of losing him? He’s our only son, Eric! How can you…”

“There ain’t nothin’ we can do about it, Suze. Might as well make our peace with it now.”

Eric shoved his head under the water, holding his breath as long as he could stand it. He eventually emerged, gasping for breath, dizzy and his whole world feeling like it had gone upside down.

It hurt. Everything hurt. His father’s dismissal, his willingness to put Eric’s life in danger just to prove he’s a real man. But it wasn’t like he was wrong about the last part. That had to apply to Eric too. Because Coach was right, there was nothing to be done about it, and Eric had to make his peace with it before his number was up.

*** 

It was somewhere well past midnight when Eric came to from the sound of someone in his room. Panic gripped him, and he scrambled for the old baseball bat he kept beside his bed—the thing mostly untouched, but the only real weapon he had within reach.

Before he could make contact with the handle, a voice shushed him, then his mother’s voice spoke. “Dicky, keep quiet!”

At her tone, Eric immediately went silent, though he scrambled to sit up, clutching his sheets around his waist. “Momma, what…?”

“Quiet,” she hissed at him again, and his jaw clamped shut once more. “We don’t have much time.”

“For what?” he whispered, even as he climbed out of bed and began to scramble into the clothes she’d shoved into his arms. “Momma, what are you doin’?”

“I can’t let you go,” she said. Her voice was barely above a whisper, tense and almost scared, which sent a shiver up Eric’s spine. “I just…I can’t lose you, Dicky. You’re my only child, I can’t…”

Eric’s eyes widened when he realised what she was saying. “Oh momma, no, I can’t…”

“I have friends. You know your my cousin Aaron?”

Eric bit his lip, nodding. Aaron Birkholtz was Judy’s older brother, who’d gone up to New York and got himself a fancy job as a lawyer, as his father liked to sneer. They saw each other every so often, when Coach was feeling less nervous about Suzanne going to visit family for Pesach. But they weren’t close by any means. But if Aaron, the _lawyer_ , had some way for him to get out of the draft…

“His son was there. Adam? Do you remember him?”

The name Adam invoked an old memory of a very tall, very broad boy with blonde hair and glasses. He’d always been real loud, and real mouthy, but he’d never been particularly mean—something Eric always appreciated about him.

“I think so, yeah,” Eric said as he struggled into his loafers. He watched in the shadows of his room as Suzanne was shoving clothes, books, pens, and paper into Eric’s case. 

“Well he was there. Got shot, lost an eye, messed up his leg real bad. But he had a friend from college, from Toronto, and he…”

“Oh momma, no,” Eric whispered, pressing his fingers to his lips. “Do you know what they do to draft dodgers who get caught?”

“I know baby, but…” She hesitated, then put a warm palm against his cheek. “Dicky, riskin’ jail is better than riskin’ the day I need to put you in the ground. I can’t…I wouldn’t survive it. If you really wanna join up, I won’t stop you, but your daddy…”

“I know,” Eric said, and he bowed his head and felt a vicious wash of guilt for how much he’d be called a coward, because he wasn’t a fool. He knew what choice he was about to make. “I know, momma.”

“Adam’s got a friend who knows this family who can…who is willin’ to house some boys. They gotta bakery you can work in, and Adam’s got some papers…” She cleared her throat, then moved her palm from his cheek to his shoulder, squeezing. “You can say no.”

“I know,” Eric said, and didn’t meet her eye as she realised he wasn’t going to. “When do we leave?”

“Now, before your daddy gets up and does what he can to stop us.”

“When you get home,” Eric warned.

Suzanne squeezed his shoulder once more before dropping his hand away and clearing her throat. “You just let me deal with that man when I get home. Once I know you’re safe. You hear me?”

“Yes, momma,” Eric said. He found his coat, his extra pair of shoes, his stuffed bun which he slipped into the case right before Suzanne snapped it shut. At this point, he might as well not worry about what might make him look like a sissy. He was taking the yellow-belly road out of this place, and escaping.

And he wasn’t sure what future lay ahead, but at the very least, he wasn’t going to be getting on a plane, dropped in a hostile jungle to leave in a body bag, probably in pieces.

*** 

There was a level of fear Eric couldn’t help but feel on the entire drive. Suzanne was driving him to Raleigh, where he’d catch a plane to New York, and Adam would meet him there. She didn’t have a lot of information after that, and Eric couldn’t help the almost violent fear of the unknown. But he supposed this fear was easier to handle than one he’d be feeling on a bus to boot camp as he prepared to train, and be shipped overseas. 

The drive took only a handful of hours, and there was a moment where Eric felt so profoundly alone, he wasn’t sure he was going to be able to get his feet to work to make it to his gate, and get on the plane. But he had to be brave, he had to trust himself to do this, because his mother put everything she loved at risk to save him from an uncertain future, even if it was sending him directly into another one.

He had to trust her.

So he put one foot in front of the other, checked his case, got his pass, and curled his hand in his pocket around the wad of cash she’d slipped him as he made his way into his seat.

He spent the entire flight staring down at the sea of clouds beneath him, wondering what it was going to be like, and if Adam was going to take one look at the scrawny, nancy little nineteen year old in front of him and tell him to get lost. That he didn’t help queer boys like that. He could’a been a fairy hawk for all Eric knew, and realised that Adam could leave him beat in an alley somewhere, or maybe even turn him over to authorities.

But what was he gonna do about it now? He didn’t have enough money to run, and he didn’t think his momma would send him to some boy she didn’t trust. So he could hope. 

His hands were shaking as he went down to baggage claim, then he found a taxi and rattled off the address he’d been given with the cash. Eric had never been to New York—in fact Atlanta was the biggest city he’d ever been to, and it paled in comparison to all this. The traffic was constantly at a stand-still, and there were people everywhere, from shoppers, to men in suits, to women carrying round cigarettes and coffee, to people on street corners holding signs and yelling in megaphones.

It was just…so much, and Eric felt almost sick with curiosity, wonder, and trepidation.

It took nearly forty five minutes to get to the building where Adam would be waiting, and the cost was just over two dollars, so he handed over three and left the rest as a tip. He clambered out of the taxi, grabbed his bag, and held his breath as he approached the building and saw the buzzers on the side.

None had names, but he found 151 and pushed the button for a second.

Then the speaker crackled, and a voice said, “What it is, what it is?”

Eric flinched, then said, “I’m…Eric? Here to see Adam.”

There was no reply, just the click of the door unlocking, and Eric stepped in. Adam lived on the first floor, and the single set of stairs felt like an impossible climb. He was nearly dizzy with nerves by the time he reached 151, at the very end of the hall, which smelt heavily of weed and spices. He licked his lips, gripped his case so tight his knuckles went yellow-white, and then he knocked.

He wasn’t sure what was going to happen when the door opened, but he knew then he was changing his life completely, and at this point, there was no turning back.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No specific warnings for this chapter, but bear in mind this entire fic will deal with mild themes of war, war protests, and war injuries. Nothing graphic, and not the focus of the fic.

Sitting at the counter, Eric curled his fingers around his chipped mug of coffee, trying to look as small and unobtrusive as possible. And it wasn’t like the apartment was hostile. His cousin hadn’t been anything but happy to see him. He was a giant of a man, nearly a foot taller than Eric, and in spite of his limp had all-but run forward to drag him into a hug.

He looked different, and not just the scarring from the injury to his face, but he was older. He wasn’t the tall, gangly boy sneaking cookies in the linen closet during Seder. He was grown up, a few years older than Eric, and there was a hardness to him that Eric hadn’t really considered until he was there in front of him.

Adam had been in combat exactly twenty-eight days before he was caught in an unsuspecting blast. He was shot in the leg shortly after, and he’d lay there for hours and hours before a team could get to him to drag him off the field. He told the story with a sort of bland, tired inflection, like he’d told it a hundred times over, like the last thing he wanted to be doing was recounting the trauma.

But he did. “Because I want you to understand why I’m doing this.” Adam was across from Eric then, holding his own coffee in his hands that perpetually shook. He had a prosthetic eye behind his thick glasses, and the left side of his face was marred with thick, pink scars. There was no part of him that didn’t look like it had seen the worst of what the war had to offer, and it made Eric’s stomach twist with fear because he knew deep down, had that been him, he wouldn’t have come home. Not alive to tell his momma he loved her.

“I understand, you know,” Eric said quietly.

Adam nodded, but he didn’t look convinced. “It’s only…I know this is dangerous, kid. I do. I know that I can get in just as much trouble as you, if not more. Justin and I have gotten at least a dozen guys over the border, and we’ve got ten more after you. But this war is…” He let out a shaking breath, then shrugged. “It’s not for us.”

Eric found himself half-lost in Adam’s accent. A twinge of New York, a twinge of Yiddish, deep rumbling in his chest. Eric had to wonder if Coach ever looked at Adam during family visits and thought he’d gotten the wrong kid. Adam would have dominated the field, brought home every trophy. Had gone to war, and had been lucky enough to come home.

“Would you have run?” Eric asked softly. “If you knew, would you have…”

“Yes,” Adam said, his voice like steel. “There’s no question, Dicky. I was hot-headed, hot-blooded, thinking I was gonna go save the world or whatever. But you get there, you land on that ground and it’s just…” He shrugged, and Eric knew then there wasn’t words to describe it. “Ain’t our war, man. And I’ll be damned if I don’t do what I can to get kids like you outta there.”

Eric licked his lips, and didn’t push the issue. Because what was the point. He was in too deep now, and he wasn’t ready to die. Not yet. Not like that. “So what now?”

“Now we lay low for a bit. Justin will be back tomorrow, and then we can pack up and head out. Border isn’t far, and I got you some pretty cool digs. Your momma said you was still baking, and the guy I know up in Quebec, he’s a real mensch.”

“And you trust him?” Eric asked, just a hint of trepidation.

“No worries, man, Bob’s mishpocheh. I wouldn’t entrust my cousin to anyone less than.”

Eric felt slightly better, though not entirely. “Well…reckon you can tell me more later. I’m kind of…”

“Oh, hey, yeah,” Adam said, and eased himself up, beckoning Eric along. The apartment wasn’t much, only one room in the back with a mattress on the floor. But Adam was letting Eric take it, which was a nice reprieve from how his life had suddenly become something else—something new and terrifying.

The door shut behind him, and Eric curled up in the middle of the mattress, pulling Adam’s threadbare blanket over his shoulders, and he squeezed his eyes shut. He whispered a quiet prayer, hoping it would be heard, hoping he’d remain safe, and that all of this would eventually pass.

“We can’t be at war forever,” he whispered to himself.

It would be a long, long time before Eric could sleep.

*** 

Adam didn’t bother him until breakfast, and Eric woke, groggy and confused, to the smell of bacon and coffee. Stretching out the ache in his back, Eric blinked at the closed door, realising the sound that had dragged him from sleep was rapid knocking.

“Hey kid, we gotta skeddle in a while, if you wanna grab something to eat before we head out, you’d better get up now.”

Eric scrubbed at his face, taking several deep breaths before dragging himself to his feet. He knew he should change clothes at the very least. Eric had always been meticulous about his hygiene and he hadn’t touched a shower in days. But he understood how quickly they needed to get out. He could only imagine what Adam had to arrange to get him across the border safely.

Walking out, Eric found Adam in the kitchen, hovering near another man nearly as tall as him, and even broader in the shoulders. He was speaking rapidly, his voice a deep rumble, and when he turned to see Eric there, he froze.

“Oh my god, Holtzy he’s like two feet tall!”

Eric immediately pinked. “I’m not!”

Adam snorted a laugh, then grabbed the mug of coffee from the table and shoved it at Eric. “Drink that, we gotta split if we’re going to get our shopping done.”

“Shopping,” Eric said dubiously.

“I need supplies,” was all Adam said with a dismissive wave of his hand. He turned back to the other guy, then said, “Oh! Justin, this is Eric. Eric, Justin.”

“Worst manners in the world, no wonder he’s not married, eh?” Justin stuck out his hand, which enveloped Eric’s. But his grip was polite, easy, and his smile reached his eyes which eased the tension out of Eric’s shoulders. 

This whole thing was terrifying, but there was something about Justin and Adam that made him feel…safe. In a way he hadn’t before. Like maybe if they learnt about him, knew the truth, they wouldn’t leave him black and blue in some alley. He couldn’t trust that feeling, of course. He’d been led astray before, but for what it was worth, he was going to milk it. At least, until they dropped him off somewhere in Canada to sit on his haunches and wait out the end of the madness.

And then well…then he’d figure it out. Somehow.

He managed half a bagel before he was unceremoniously dragged out the door, and Adam kept a surprisingly quick pace in spite of the injury to his leg. He navigated the crowded streets with ease, a cigarette clenched between his teeth, one hand on Justin’s shoulder to compensate for the lack of sight on his left. Eric kept a few paces behind, feeling overwhelmed by the sheer vastness of the city—so many people, so many buildings, so much _life_ crammed into such a small space.

They reached a wide street corner, Eric completely lost at this point, but Adam shoved him at Justin’s side and said, “Stay here. I have to go talk to a man about a thing. Don’t get lost.”

Eric bit his lip and looked down, even as he felt Justin up against his side, keeping him grounded. Adam disappeared through a set of double doors, and then they were alone.

Eric shuffled his feet, cleared his throat, glanced up at Justin, then quickly away.

“You uncomfortable with black people?” Justin asked, not really an accusation, but Eric supposed it was a fair question, considering where he come from.

“I don’t think so,” Eric answered honestly. “I’ve never…I mean it’s…my town was real small and…” He swallowed back his nerves, flushing. “You seem real nice.”

“I am,” Justin said, then winked and grinned. “I swear kid, I could put you in my pocket if I wanted to.”

“Please don’t,” Eric deadpanned, and when Justin elbowed him, he toppled a few feet away. Righting himself, he straightened his shirt, then combed his fingers back through his hair just as Justin was lighting a smoke.

“You want?”

“Never had the constitution for ‘em,” Eric admitted, though he wished right now he’d picked up the habit because having something to do with his hands would be nice. He wanted to fidget or pace or something, but even standing still on the street corner was getting him bumped and jostled by pedestrians looking like they were hurryin’ to meet their maker.

Justin just shrugged at him, then took a big drag and said, “You wanna grab some ice cream? Adam’ll know where to meet us.”

And before he could give an answer, Justin seized his hand and pulled him along.

*** 

The shop was surprisingly quaint, and the owner seemed to know Justin because without even having to order, he was given two large cones. Justin set two quarters on the counter, then the pair of them went outside to a couple of tables and sat to watch the people go by.

“You like it here?” Eric asked. “Livin’ here?”

“I don’t all the time,” Justin admitted, then took a big bite of his ice cream. “I wasn’t going to stay here at all, but I met Holtzy and he kind of stuck on me. It’s been cool though, you know?”

“I guess,” Eric said in a small voice. “Those other boys’r probably bigger’n I am. Braver.”

“Hey, man. No,” Justin said, and reached across the table, surprising Eric by gently grabbing his wrist. “This whole thing—the draft, the war, all of it. Like you’re not a coward for leaving. No one should be…” He stopped, glancing round. “We can talk about it later. But don’t think we feel that way about you. Adam, me, these guys you’re going to meet. This isn’t…there’s no shame in saving someone’s life. Those guys on street corners yelling into their megaphones about the lives being lost, they’re not lying.”

Eric nodded, his throat tight with emotions, and he fell quiet until his ice cream was gone, and Adam had returned.

*** 

They were leaving dead in the night. Adam had a packet of papers for Eric—new identity, Canadian money, and a story if they were ever stopped. Adam had a contact at the border, though, and they’d get through without Eric being questioned. Then it was just a matter of getting to Quebec, and getting Eric safely in Bob’s house before anyone could stop them.

“I’ve done this run half a dozen times now, kid,” Adam said, ruffling Eric’s primly combed hair.

Eric huffed, and reached for his comb to fix it. “That doesn’t mean things can’t go wrong.”

“No,” Adam said as he hefted Eric’s bag over his shoulder, “but don’t mean things can’t go right, either. Trust me, okay? You’re family. I’m not letting anything happen to you.”

The conviction in his tone warmed Eric to his toes, and all he could do was smile as he followed Adam down to the street, and into the small car which was already running, Justin at the wheel. Eric felt a pang as they left—a pang for leaving a place he barely got to know, a pang for leaving his entire life behind without looking back.

He wondered if he’d see it again—if he’d remain a free person after it was all over, after he was done committing this huge crime. He shook with nerves when he thought about it, so he forced it to the very back of his head, and closed his eyes as they hit the open road.

It would be a long drive, but he was ready for it.

*** 

His eyelids ached as he forced them open as the car slowed to a halt. They’d crossed the border without issue, and the moment they were on the open road, heading for Quebec, Eric felt the fear and tension drain out of him. He drifted, then eventually fell to sleep to the sound of Adam and Justin quietly arguing over the merits of Montreal v New York bagels. He didn’t get it, but the friendly banter set him at ease.

But nothing over the past few days had been conducive to actual rest for Eric. Everything in his body ached, and he was craving a soft place to land, and a few hours to collect himself before he accepted that this was his new reality.

Scrubbing at his face, Eric peered out the window and his eyes widened. They weren’t in a large city, but rather on the outskirts of it. Miles away, Eric could see glaring lights from large buildings looming in the distance. But here…here was something else. As the last vestiges of dusk faded from soft pinks and purples, to the hazy, deep black-blue, stars poured out high above the trees which lined the massive property Adam had turned onto.

The drive was massive, curving toward one of the largest homes Eric had ever seen. It vaguely resembled some of the old Victorian homes in Georgia, white with darker trim, lamps hanging on door posts, pillars out front. Nothing like the old plantation homes, but in a way he was grateful for it. The last thing he wanted to be reminded of was the place we ran away from.

Eric licked his lips. “So…do I need to learn French to get along here?”

Adam snorted. “Nah, kid. This is Samwell. If you go into the city a lot, you’ll probably learn a thing or two. But everyone’s MOT here.”

Eric raised his brows. “Yeah but…it’s still Quebec.”

“Jewish Quebec,” Adam clarified. He rattled off something in Yiddish then, which Eric only understood a word or two of. His mother never spoke it at home, and it was just a few words from his bobeshi, but he’d only been allowed to see her a dozen times over his nineteen years. “Bobby’s from Morocco, they speak French at home, but English too. Don’t panic.”

“I’m not,” Eric said defensively, but that was just this side of a lie. He wasn’t outright panicked, but as the car rolled to a stop, the profound realisation that this was it—that Adam was going to bring him in and drop him off and then…well, then he’d go and Eric would start over here and—and it was a lot.

He was tired of trying to be brave. He was tired of feeling like his life had been ripped out of his hands. He was tired of feeling like he had no choice. Even if all of those things were true, and even if doing this meant he was escaping the alternate which would be being dropped in the middle of a jungle and likely shot within a day.

Adam turned the car off, and Justin was out of the car and well ahead of them, loping into the house as Eric struggled to get his bags out of the boot. Adam offered him a hand, but Eric waved him off, preferring to have as much to do as possible while stepping into the stranger’s home.

The walk to the door felt eternal, and then just inside, Eric was hit with warm, fragrant air and the sound of a woman’s laughter. He stiffened, but Adam pushed him along with a heavy hand on his shoulder, and they made their way into a cosy sitting room where the modern décor and blaring TV belied the archaic design of the house itself.

Two people were there now, stood near a low coffee table, dressed casual for the evening. The man was incredibly tall, broad shoulders and a soft stomach. His hair was combed neatly to the side, a smattering of salt and pepper along the temples, and his large, brown eyes were crinkled with laugh lines. He had one hand on the lower back of a woman, shorter than him by a full head, with coiffed blonde hair, a full figure, and one of the sweetest smiles Eric had ever seen. Her eyes were a sharp, icy blue, almost distracting in their colour, and they softened the moment they set on Eric.

“This is him?” she asked.

“Eric, right?” the man offered, detaching his hand from the woman’s waist and extending it out as he took a limping step toward Eric.

“That’s me, sir.” Eric quickly took his hand, then offered it to the woman.

“I’m Bob,” he said, “and this is my wife Alicia. We’re incredibly happy to have you.” His accent was thicker than hers, unlike anything Eric had heard before, but his English was fluent and steady.

“Thank you,” Eric said, slightly breathy as he pulled away from Alicia. “I really…I don’t have words for how much I appreciate…I just…if there’s anything I can do,” Eric rambled.

Bob chuckled quietly, then laid his hand on Eric’s shoulder. “None of that, eh? Adam, why don’t you and Justin get Eric’s bags up to his room, and we’ll get him fed. I’ve got some stuff for you boys to take back on the drive with you, too.”

“Honey challah?” Adam said, almost begging.

Bob laughed again, nudging him before giving Eric a small push. “Of course. Go on.”

Adam and Justin grabbed the bags off Eric before he could protest, and Eric was quickly shepherded through a small corridor, through a second door, and into a wide kitchen. It was also modern, nothing like his momma’s dated kitchen. It had a sort of mossy-green to all the appliances, and if Eric had been in his right mind, he would have been crooning over the large mixer on the table, and every sort of mixing tool he could imagine.

Bob urged him to the table, and quickly began to put together a small plate. Left over brisket, it seemed like, and veg. He poured a glass of juice, and the plate was put in front of Eric. “You don’t need to eat it all,” he said when he caught sight of Eric’s worried expression. “Just something to tide you over until breakfast.”

“Thank you,” Eric said, because panic or not, he’d be damned if he forgot his manners. He used his knife and fork and cut into the brisket. Everything tasted of ash, but he ate it anyway, and only startled a little when Bob pulled out another chair and eased into it.

It was then Eric noticed his leg. Stiff, too straight, and Bob moved it by dragging it by the hem of his trousers. He must have caught Eric’s look, because he laughed and knocked on it, the sound hollow and strange. “Lost it. Juno Beach,” he said, and Eric knew exactly what that meant. “I was in the water a long time, didn’t think I was going to make it out, but here I am.”

“Yes, sir,” Eric muttered. He occupied his mouth with the juice as Bob watched.

“You don’t need to be afraid.”

“I…” Eric swallowed thickly as he curled his fingers round the glass. “I can’t help it. I’m tryin’, but it’s a lot. I’m…I’ve never been away from home, sir. Then I get my papers, and my momma’s got me in the truck, and on a plane, and at Adam’s door…and less than two days I’m sittin’ here in your kitchen—which is real nice, sir, believe me. I appreciate a good kitchen. But I…I don’t know…I’m not sure what…” His voice cracked, and he forced himself to take a breath, hating how much it shook.

“I understand,” Bob said, and with a loud squeak on the linoleum, he dragged his chair a little closer. When he folded his hands on the table, Eric noticed they were speckled with scars, and calloused in places just like his own. Like a baker’s hands. “No ones’ telling you you’re not allowed to be afraid. I just want you to understand you’re safe here. And you’re not alone. Not just my wife or myself, or my son, but there are others just like you.”

Eric’s eyes widened a fraction. “Oh. I…”

“We’re here to help. Like Adam, I was given a taste of exactly what war does to young men.” He sat back, folding his hands over his stomach, and looked at Eric carefully. “In April, 1944, I won a Stanley Cup with the Canadiens. And two months later I was being gunned down on Juno Beach, not sure I was going to live. I came home with no leg, and no idea what I was supposed to do. I fought in the war, because it was our people over there being systematically murdered, Eric. And I couldn’t sit here and play hockey and pretend like it wasn’t my job to fight for us to live.”

Eric swallowed thickly, nodding. “Yes, sir,” he all-but whispered.

“But I came home a changed man, and I wouldn’t change it. I’d give both my limbs to know that I did something, even if it was next to nothing in the grand scheme of things. But this war is different. This war isn’t about that. And if I can prevent boys like you from coming home like me, then I will. Because that’s another fight I’m willing to play a part in.”

Eric nodded, staring at his plate of food which was barely touched. He couldn’t stomach another bite, but he felt warmed and a little safer with Bob talking to him.

“Adam tells me you’re a baker,” Bob said after a moment of silence.

Eric’s head snapped up, eyes wide. “Oh. Er…yes, sir. I worked in my momma’s café before…well. Before all this.”

Bob nodded sagely. “Then I think you’ll be happy here. I own Zimmermann’s, which I know is still trying to gain itself a name in the States, but we do well here. We’re like family. And we look out for each other.”

“Thank you,” Eric murmured.

Bob smiled gently, then pushed himself up to stand, and held a hand out for Eric. “Come on. Let’s see what those boys have gotten themselves into, before they bring the house down. Then we’ll get you set up for bed. You can meet everyone in the morning, alright?”

“Alright,” Eric said, and allowed Bob to lead him out of the kitchen.

*** 

Eric woke in the morning, surprised he’d been able to sleep at all. His comfortable accommodations probably helped matters, in spite of his nerves. 

After leaving the kitchen, Eric met Justin and Adam back in the sitting room, and he’d been dragged into a hug, sandwiched between them, with promises that they’d keep in touch and visit when they could. They were staying, but would be leaving early in the morning, well before anyone would be up.

Alicia was quick to show Eric to his room after that, speaking in soft, kind tones as she showed him where he could bathe, and promised his washing would be collected once a week, so not to worry about anything he needed.

The room itself was small, but the bed was more luxurious than he was used to, and after his head hit the pillow, he was out like a light. He woke now with the morning sun through is window, a breeze of fresh, cool air from the crack near the sill, and he pushed himself up to a sit.

He’d been far too tired to bathe the night before, but he was feeling grimy and uncomfortable, so he gathered his things and padded across the hall to the bathroom which held a massive, claw-footed tub. He ran the water as hot as he could stand it, and soaked for longer than was probably appropriate. But it felt good to slough off the last few days, sweat from anxiety, the smells from the plane, the chaos of New York streets.

He dried himself off on a massive towel, wondering if he would ever get used to living in something so posh. His own home had only seen running water in the last two decades, his daddy putting in the plumbing himself just a year before Eric was born. Here, standing before an ornate mirror, using a silver-handled comb to brush the pomade through his hair, he couldn’t imagine what it was like growing up here.

But he remembered Bob mentioning he had a son, and Eric had to wonder how old he was, and what sort of person he was like. He had to be something special, being raised by two people like Bob and Alicia. His stomach gave a strange flutter at the thought, and Eric quickly tamped that down as he bent over to tie his shoes, then collect his dirty clothes and put them in the small basket Alicia had provided for him.

He felt wrong leaving anything to someone else to tidy, but it wasn’t his place to change things. So he headed downstairs, and halfway in he smelt the rich aroma of coffee, and something vaguely cinnamon in the air. He reminded himself he was welcome, that there wouldn’t be any strange surprises, but when he pushed into the kitchen, he collided with a tall, broad body which was almost blocking the door way.

“Oh lord, pardon me,” Eric gasped, daring to look up.

The face of the man staring down at him caused the air in Eric’s lungs to leave in a rush. He was simultaneously the most beautiful man Eric had ever seen, and possibly the angriest. His eyes, sleepy like Bob’s, and blue like Alicia’s, were set under furrowed brows, and his lips were thinned in a scowl under his sharp nose. He was dressed in a tight white t-shirt, the sleeves rolled up, and jeans which were cuffed just above the ankle. His black shoes shone bright against the floor, and Eric had to force himself to breathe before he could speak again.

“I’m so sorry. I’m Eric I’m…”

“Pardonne,” the man said, his voice icy, clipped. He shouldered past Eric, knocking him into the wall as he left.

There was only a moment before Bob came into the kitchen, using a cane this time and leaning on it heavily as he moved through the room. “So, you’ve met Jack.”

“Jack?” Eric asked.

“He’s…” Bob hesitated, then sighed. “He’s not a morning person.”

Eric was completely sure there was more to the story than that, but it wasn’t his place to ask, so he said nothing as Bob fussed with the coffee maker, and served Eric a massive cinnamon roll. The pair of them sat at the table, and Eric quickly tucked in.

“Normally we start a lot earlier than this,” Bob said, “as I’m sure you’re used to.”

Eric quickly chased his sticky mouthful down with the coffee. “Yes, sir. I’m so sorry, I was…”

“No, don’t apologise,” Bob said. “Alicia and I were adamant you got some sleep. We’ll take my car down to the shop once you’re through eating, and you can meet everyone. Tomorrow you can start with the rest of the boys.”

“Do they,” Eric asked slowly, “I mean…in this house. Do they live here or…”

“There,” Bob said, and gestured to the window. 

With the sun out, Eric was able to make out a massive garden, and about two hundred metres from the house was a second house—mother-in-law quarters it looked like. It was painted a sort of greenish colour, and looked in slight disrepair, but well loved.

“They call it the Haus,” Bob said, affection colouring his tone. “There’s room for you there, if you’d like. But there’s no rush. Take your time and get to know everyone first.”

Eric bit his lip, then nodded. “Thank you,” he said again, and had a feeling he’d be saying that a lot for some time. He quickly hurried to finish his breakfast, and soon enough he was following Bob outside to his car, to start the rest of the day.

He wasn’t sure what the boys were going to be like, but if they were anything like Jack, he wasn’t sure how long he was going to last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clearly everyone is NOT like Jack, but you know...tension build-up. 
> 
> Samwell is _obviously_ an imagined village, but I wanted to outline a sanctuary for Eric, along with showing the Jewish community apart from everything else.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was meant to be longer, but my computer decided to have a hiccup or...something, idk. But it wasn't registering my saves on my word programme and boom, 3k words gone.
> 
> This is just a small interlude that I hadn't written before, and as I work on re-writing that, I thought I'd post this little bit of pre-zimbits to get through until I finish. Hopefully it won't take me long.

Eric didn’t intend to be up before sunrise. He’d expected the tossing and turning, of course, but he’d also expected to be able to get a few hours before the next day began. It was sometime near dawn when he realised it was pointless to keep trying, so he quickly washed and dressed for the day, then crept downstairs to the dark, still kitchen.

He didn’t want to over-step any boundaries, but Bob had insisted Eric feel free to use the kitchen as he saw fit, so he found some instant coffee in one of the cabinets, and quickly boiled water in the small, silver kettle. There was sugar and milk available, and although Eric knew he should get something a little more substantial in his body before his long day, the thought of food made his stomach twist.

He gripped his cup between both hands, and quietly let himself out the back door. He hadn’t been given a lot of time to explore the grounds, but from the covered porch, he was able to see the property extended far off into the distance. The house where most of the draft-dodgers were staying was just starting to light up—which made sense if most of the boys there worked in the bakery.

Eric hunkered down on the top step, drawing his legs in close to him as he listened to the world begin to wake. The sky in the distance was just growing a hazy purple with the impending sunrise, and Eric felt a shiver deep in his bones. Loneliness, he knew, and a sense of being displaced. The future was foggy—filled with a sort of abstract hope of peace and being able to live without worry, but Eric would never feel a hundred percent himself.

Not in the world they lived in.

He blew out a shaky puff of air, then jumped, nearly spilling his coffee when the door behind him slammed. Eric turned his head, eyes widening as he saw the shadowed figure of Bob’s son. Jack. He was wearing tight jeans over black boots, and was in the process of shrugging on a black leather jacket. His sleepy eyes were fixated on Eric, and there was tension along his jaw, though he looked far less hostile than he had the day before.

Eric shifted a little uncomfortably, and watched Jack push a cigarette between his teeth, then light it with the flick of a silver lighter. Jack drew in a lungful of smoke, and Eric watched as it billowed like a cloud from between his parted lips.

“You any good with cars?” His voice was rough from the early morning, and thick with his accent.

Eric’s eyes widened. “I…how do you mean?”

“Cars,” Jack said, his tone a little impatient now. “I need to change the oil on the truck before making a run. Could use an extra set of hands.”

Eric set his coffee mug to the side and moved to stand when the tip of Jack’s boot, very lightly, kicked his arm.

“Don’t leave that there for my mother to clean up. She’s not a maid.”

“I wasn’t,” Eric spluttered, indignant and horrified that Jack could ever think that about him. He rose, quickly rushing into the kitchen to wash up, and when he came out, Jack was gone, but Eric could hear noise from round the corner.

Still a little afraid, Eric ventured down into the grass, circling the house until he came to an open garage. Along the side was a half put together motorcycle, and in the middle of the concrete floor was a large truck—grey still with lack of paint, but looked new enough.

Jack was crouched down near one of the tires, using the jack to haul it into the air, and for just a moment Eric allowed himself to feel the attraction, hot and sizzling in his gut at the sight of Jack’s arms. He’d shucked the jacket between the house and the garage, and his t-shirt sleeves had been rolled to his shoulders.

Eric licked his lips, then cleared his throat as he approached. “I’m here.”

Jack raised a brow at him. “Not gonna cry about getting your hands dirty?”

“I’ve never put up a fuss before,” Eric said. He knew what he looked like, he knew he’d have to prove it. So he simply picked up the oil filter wrench, and plopped down on the dirty towel Jack had laid out. He glanced over, seeing Jack’s expression which if pressed, Eric might call it surprised. But mostly it was blank.

Eric used his feet to push himself under the truck, and quickly got to work.

This was no hardship for him. One of the first things his daddy ever taught him was to change the oil on the truck, and Eric had done it ever since. It was quick work, and as he secured the oil pan back on after swapping the filter, he grabbed the old oil as Jack started to fill the reservoir back up.

“You can put the old stuff there,” Jack said, jutting his chin at a work bench.

Eric nodded, then set it aside before looking round to clean himself up. There were a few towels, and a basin near the corner, so he scrubbed up as best he could, then turned to find Jack closing the bonnet back over the engine.

They were both a little worse for the wear, which was a difficult task being that the sun wasn’t even fully in the sky yet, but Eric felt good about it. Useful in a way he hadn’t felt in some time. He didn’t smile though, didn’t think Jack would appreciate that, even as he flushed under Jack’s intense gaze.

“What was your name again?” Jack asked as he reached into his curled sleeves and pulled out a fresh pack of cigarettes. He took one out, offering it to Eric.

“Thank you, no. And I’m Eric. Uh. Eric Bittle…”

“Bittle,” Jack said, trying the sound out. It sounded strange in his accent, but not in a bad way. The change was almost welcome from the drawl he was used to back home. A stark reminder of how far he was, but in a way, how much more safe. “How strong are you?”

Eric blinked at him, startled by the question. “What do you…”

“You think you can haul bags of flour? The bakery needs a supply run and I need a set of hands. You’re small but…”

“I can handle it,” Eric said quickly, and when Jack looked dubious, he puffed out his chest a bit. “I’ve been workin’ for my momma’s diner since I was knee high. I can handle a few bags of flour.”

Jack snorted and muttered, “Few bags of flour,” before he dropped the cigarette on the concrete and crushed it with the heel of his boot. When Eric didn’t move, Jack rolled his eyes and slapped the top of the truck, making Eric jump. “Get in the cab, Bittle. We’re wasting hours.”

Eric quickly scrambled for the door, not realising until they were halfway down the road, that he was about to be trapped in the small confines of a truck, with a man who clearly, clearly didn’t like him.

*** 

Eric supposed he would have stayed a little more annoyed with Jack’s derisive, “few bags of flour” comment if he hadn’t been confronted with the sudden sea of flour bags the moment they pulled up to the warehouse. 

The ride had been silent for the most part, Eric biting down on his instinct to fill the negative space between them with pointless ramblings, and Jack seeming not just apathetic about Eric’s existence, but also not a very chatty sort of guy to begin with. But the drive was nice, at any rate, and Eric was enjoying the soft way the sun played over the horizon as they took narrow, barely-maintained roads toward their destination.

Eric was still trying to understand the landscape of where they were. Quebec, he knew. The French-Canadian province of Canada. He’d at least learnt that much in his geography in school. He was also vaguely aware that Quebec and the rest of Canada didn’t really get along so well, but he supposed he understood what that was like, being from the south.

But there was something different to Samwell, a sort of otherness to the small—whatever it was. Village? Town? There were no defining markers, and Eric had only really been there a few hours, and none of them had been daylight before now. But he could sense it in the way Bob talked, in the way Jack navigated these deserted streets.

It was fitting, Eric supposed, that running away from his country like that, to avoid what he should consider his duty, that he’d be sequestered in another little place full of the unwanted. He considered asking Jack to explain, but he wasn’t sure his questions would be welcome.

So he said nothing until they pulled up to the loading dock, and he got a good eyeful of what had to be brought over to the bakery.

Part of Eric wanted to cry. Part of him wanted to take his chances in the war.

Instead he rolled up his sleeves and stretched his back, then offered Jack a look of steely determination before he got to work.

It took an hour and a half, and by the end, Eric couldn’t tell whether Jack’s face meant he was on time, or well past. Whatever the case, Eric did not hesitate another moment when Jack ordered him back to his seat, and he certainly didn’t turn away the fresh apple turnover that Jack offered him when he climbed back into the truck.

*** 

“So,” Eric said as he watched the sign for Zimmermann’s come into view, “I did alright, don’t you think?”

Jack snorted, then pulled up behind the building and honked the horn twice to signal their arrival. He stretched his arm along the back of the seats and gave Eric a long, considering look. The moment was broken by the sound of the truck bed being invaded by the other workers, and Jack reached for his door handle, stepping out and stretching.

When he turned back, he was still giving Eric a considering look. Then he shrugged one shoulder and stepped back. “It wasn’t bad for a first day. But Bittle?”

“Yes?” Eric asked as he reached down to open his own door.

“You need to eat more protein.”

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to come yell at me, or talk to me about this or any of my other fic, [angryspace-ravenclaw](https://angryspace-ravenclaw.tumblr.com)
> 
> I plan to update this and my other zimbits fic every few days since I have a few weeks off before spring term, and this should be done sometime either late Dec or early Jan. :)


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